The only impeccable writers are those who never wrote.

We grow tired of ourselves, much more of other people.

Language, if it throws a veil over our ideas, adds a softness and refinement to them, like that which the atmosphere gives to naked objects.

We can scarcely hate anyone that we know.

We judge of others for the most part by their good opinion of themselves; yet nothing gives such offense or creates so many enemies, as that extreme self-complacency or superciliousness of manner, which appears to set the opinion of every one else at defiance.

A King (as such) is not a great man. He has great power, but it is not his own.

As we are poetical in our natures, so we delight in fable.